Passing Shadows
by Nyah
Summary: She could be anybody. The day the masks come off.
1. Default Chapter

Author: Stark  
Summary: "She could be anybody"  
Author's Note: I know I said I was going to work on a sequel to S is for Spy and I still and but I swear my muse is like a small annoying dog. It bites my ankle and will not let go until I appease it or it gets bored. This starts off rather... randomly but I promise it will come together.  
  
Passing Shadows  
  
She could be anybody.  
  
People watching fascinates me. One of the most incredible things in life is to root myself to one spot and look on as the entire world passes me by.   
  
I spent an entire day in the same seat of metro train once doing just that. It's amazing the things that can be learned with just observing and overhearing.   
  
Don't get me wrong. I'm not some kind of stalker. I won't follow your children home or watch you undress through your window. It simply fascinates me to see the different masks every single person dons throughout a day. Calling someone two faced is only an insult because we are all thousand faced. Each face seamlessly slips away and another takes up its place.   
  
I pride myself on my ability to see the person behind the face.  
  
This ability is the reason I've found myself shifting through a myriad a careers in my sixty years of life. I've been an English teacher, a med student, a profiler, an amateur philosopher, and even a photographer. Now I'm this.   
  
It's a simple relaxing job for a retiree like me and it lets me watch people pass to my heart's content. See I have one of those odd jobs you never hear anything about. I work in an airport. It's a busy one in California called LAX. There are all kinds of people here with all kinds of purposes. All of them are important. From the pilots that fly the commercials jets to the young kids who toss the luggage from the conveyor belts to the cargo holds.   
  
Then there's me. I'm not called upon to perform my function much but no one doubts that it's important. My job, you see, is to do what I do best. See people for what they really are.  
  
When the friendly folks at check-in see a conflict between a passenger's face and his passport they call me. I can pick up the nuances that indicate if a discrepancy is a result of plastic surgery, an out right lie, or a case of dyed hair. I'm also pretty handy with identifying smugglers and other would be criminals.   
  
For all the masks they wear, some people have the truth written plain across their faces.   
  
In the ten years I've worked, here I've nipped as many potentially dangerous situations in the bud as all that fancy new security equipment. I've seen such a multitude of people you wouldn't believe it.   
  
Movie stars, drug dealers, military personnel, brain surgeons, terrorists, politicians, businessmen, yes- men, teachers, children, bums, millionaires, drunks. And even some I couldn't pinpoint. All I know is they wore dark glasses, dark suits and went around talking to their wrists and people that weren't there quite a lot. The only ones I've never seen are the ones you hear so much about. The "normal" people. I'm beginning to doubt that they exist.   
  
Some of the people I've met would have you saying, "I'll never wash this hand again." They're fine to see and make wonderful topics for small talk but they're not really the type to peak my curiosity.   
  
The one's I'm interested in are the ones who perplex even an old pro like me. There have been few enough of these over the years. Of the ones there have been I managed to puzzle out all of them eventually.   
  
All except her.   
  
  
To be continued????? What do you think? 


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2   
  
Any of her faces is in itself quite ordinary. Usually unnoticeable or even glaringly boring. Blonde hair blue jeans. Red hair short skirt. Brunette with a suit and tie. Brunette again with crimson lips and six inch heels. Sometimes ordinary in the sense that they contribute to the great diversity unique to this country. Pink hair, green soft violet. And plenty of metal studs.  
  
On their own, none would attract more attention than the appraising looks that accompany attractive women or the brief flare of attention for the bizarre that is quickly stamped out by the political correctness of the 21st century.   
  
But then, that is their purpose.  
  
But then, none of them is really her.  
  
There are many kinds of blindness. Most are harmless, comforting even, but all are impairments. Her faces play upon blindness by overwhelming the eyes. Most eyes are so filled by the vibrant hair or impossibility lovely features that they cannot possibly see the face. Their eyes, filled with an image of perfection, slide right over her eyes, filled with so many secrets and betrayals.  
  
Who could see through the grace of her movements to the strength beneath?  
  
'Atlas' I'd dubbed her. I heard a few of the names she took... Jones... Tippin. And if I ever learned the name on her birth certificate, she would still be Atlas to me. This mind of mine is old and doesn't adjust so well to change anymore. I could no more call her by her name then she could remove the weight of the world from her shoulders.   
  
Who could look past the lithe body to the shape inside her skin?  
  
Diamonds glitter prettily, stars fallen to earth. But if you look closely, more closely than the naked eye can see, diamonds are the peek of patterned efficiency. They have a structure that can be created only by thousands of years and heat and pressure that must be something like the depths of hell.   
  
Diamonds also have the remarkable ability to cut their way through just about anything.   
  
Who could dismiss the snug veneer of her careless guise and find himself in the presence of ... hope?   
  
Someone no longer dazzled by the jeweled masks and swirling colors of the world.   
  
Me.  
  
I had seen all of her faces, her roles. I knew Kate or Amy or Michelle would board a plane, survive an ordeal, then cease to exist. So I concerned myself with the faces she made for herself. Whoever she was.  
  
I really saw her for the first time a few years ago. She had a bounce to her step and a fire in her eyes then. The lines on her face came from excitement then and her secrets didn't weight her motions. I'd probably seen her half a dozen times before that but by then she'd been by enough to take notice and had adopted the air of an adrenaline junkie.   
  
The fire is still there in her eyes but no longer fueled by excitement and the bounce has long deflated.   
  
In the interval that followed I watched her pass with the frivolous attention I paid to the men that talk to their wrists. Another interval followed marked only by her absence. I only hoped she wasn't lying in a grave marked with someone else's name.  
  
Perhaps the reality was worse.  
  
Even I hardly recognized her when she resurfaced and I had nothing to do with the blinding pink of her hair. Her new mask was snappy and rebellious while her eyes...  
I'd seen eye like that before. At the back of every pilot and passenger's mind is the knowledge that the plane might go down. And a few terrifying times their eyes look like hers... because they just didn't care.  
  
I almost stopped her then. My assurance that she wasn't what she appeared would be enough for the airline. Bu then, as the desk clerk cleared her passport I saw a spark return. It was a spark of triumph. A spark of life that would feed upon revenge.  
  
More?? 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Short part but it seemed fittingly pause, let me know what you think...  
  
Part 3  
  
Soon after she really started to get interesting. Things almost seemed to go back to the way they were before. But that excitement never came back. There was only sadness and a grim determination. It was most obvious when she was with the tall African gentleman. A partner I assumed in whatever it was she did.   
  
They were rarely ever actually together but if I ever saw him it was because she was around. The man, well that one was definitely a wrist talker. He had an easy smile and his eyes were full of the confidence of someone who knew he saved the world on a regular basis. The times the two did speak to one another were when her masks really earned their keep. Her false face would have shined in Hollywood then.  
  
At first this alarmed me. Could it be that I was time and time again letting someone with black intentions toward this country walk right by me?  
  
It was another gentleman that assured me I wasn't putting my country in danger every time I let her go. He came sauntering past me one day with her hanging on his arm. They were all smiles and affectionate butterfly kisses, a happy father and daughter. Beneath that I could see the actually family resemblance. She had her father's eyes.   
  
And her father's trust.  
  
Now when I say her father's eyes I'm not referring to the intense chocolate brown irises but to the smoldering fire I spoke of before. I realized then that he had shown me the same terrifying and change and I'd doubted him too. Before I figured him out.  
  
I'd pegged him as a wrist talker early on. He practically oozed with that mixture of pride and arrogance that said if anyone deserved to stand below an American flag it was him. A real honest to goodness, 100% pureblood American hero.   
  
Most heroes do get their American flag. Draped over their coffin decades before was their due.   
  
But in his case the flag turned out to be not a shroud but a noose. He disappeared for months as she had. When he returned, only embers remained of the fire he'd once possessed and those were struggling to breathe.   
  
The source of his torment was one of the easiest puzzles to solve. When I finally saw him again his persona was of a wealthy businessman. Still there was a faint tan line on his wrist reminiscent of a watch a man like the entrepreneur before me would not own. There was no mark left on his finger from a wedding band though. 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: hmmm seemed I called the last part chapter 4, this is the actual chapter four...  
  
Chapter 4  
  
This man was all too familiar with props, costumes and like paraphernalia. He changed identities as easily as he changed his clothes and that wrist- watch. Switching his suit jacket and his entire life story went hand in hand. The clothes didn't make the man. They made several men, most of whom existed for under twenty- four hours.  
  
Yet taking off that plain gold band had almost killed the only man who mattered.   
  
I've never been married but I've heard it said rings are a part of the wedding ceremony to symbolize love that has no beginning or end.   
  
The way I see it marriage is more about hearts than circles. Hearts break. Slips of paper end something first declared endless. Life's the real circle.   
  
And circles are always turning.  
  
This turn had muddled the colors of the hero's star and stripe patterned sunglasses. The flag no longer draped magnificently across his shoulders but hung ill- fittingly on the neck he struggled to keep upright. It had gone from an honor to an obligation.   
  
Honor and obligation differed only in that honor required heart and his was broken. His inner fire was thriving on hate now. Hate for his work, hate for life, but mostly... mostly hate for himself and for her.  
  
That was the key to the puzzle of the wedding ring.  
  
Something had strengthened his resolve, his will to serve this country. At the same time he hated it. The hate was irrational to him and he suppressed it so deeply I almost couldn't see. But I saw and began putting the pieces together.  
  
The band had been the one constant thing about him. He'd often brushed it with his fingertips as he gave a false name as if reminding himself of just who he was. Now the ring was gone and hate and a forced patriotism had taken its place. But what was the relationship?  
  
The hate was for himself and what he was, that was plain. So I assumed his work had been the cause. Maybe she had learned too much. That would explain the hate. But not the mindless patriotism. Not the hate for the woman with the other ring.  
  
A tough puzzle with many colorful pieces. But in the end it was all human nature. You see, people cannot fear, cannot hate qualities in others that they do not see in the themselves.   
  
And his life had come full circle until the pain of betraying and lying to his wife for something he'd foolishly held higher than love had bled into the pain of her betrayal for something she'd held higher. And the circle turned on. Only the pain reminding him that he was alive and the flag giving him a reason to remain so.  
  
I was grateful that the airport had only escalators, no stairs. His determination provided a kind of momentum that forced his automaton- like strides. It was not strong though and I feared if he walked down a set of stairs he wouldn't have the momentum nor the strength to walk up again.  
  
I watched him closely then, wishing there was a drug strong enough to alleviate his pain. But the only drug of that sort that existed he'd already tasted and now he was using hate to purge it from his body.  
  
Prometheus I called him. 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one having to do with Alias.  
A/N: This is the end folks.  
  
  
They walked in now without warning and my brain started doing wind sprints. People like those two weren't for we mere mortals to understand but being mortal themselves I could only wonder how they persevered.   
  
I'd never before seen them quite like this. It was as if both had sloughed off the weight of a thousand extraneous personas. The radiance coming from them was nearly palpable. Oddly enough they shared a glow similar to that of an expectant mother who knows she's about to witness the beginning of a new life.  
  
Something had happened. Changed. It was something so momentous that they were knocked out of that perpetual cycle of pains and joys and set on a straight path toward something better.  
  
Or so they thought.   
  
It was really just another turn of the circle, I knew. A turn they deserved but a turn just the same. In time they would see the landmarks again that told them they were on the path their feet had created with years of circling. The masks they thought useless would once again mean survival.   
  
Later I would grieve for the faces that had so little time to look upon the world, unhindered. But for now I just watched quietly and saw the shapes that cast the passing shadows.   
  
*******************  
  
Sydney  
  
LAX seemed different. I was still looking over my shoulder. Still assessing every possible exit and evaluating the threat of every passerby. But it was different.  
  
The world was different.   
  
You've heard the expression 'high on life.' Well I was high on life without the Alliance. My glass was half full no matter how much I drank from it.   
  
I walked through the metal detector and smiled at the security personnel who were x-raying my luggage. He was there just beyond the checkpoint like always. Had things been different he might have been one of ours.  
  
I could afford a smile this time.  
  
He met my eyes then. Physicians say that a single part of your body cannot become paralyzed but I swear at that moment I could not have moved my feet to save my life. I'd felt his gaze on me before, felt the recognition there. I'd reported this to the CIA thinking he could be a threat. They had taken one look at the man and disregarded him. I knew now they were wrong he could not only be a threat, he could be an asset. Had things been different.  
  
Those eyes of his were black on black. Or maybe they were just so full they seemed black. I knew without I doubt that he could see through me. This broken seeming old man was bound to a wheelchair by some forgotten accident. An accident that left his skin a mass of scars and claimed his voice box. But all of that faded to background noise in that electrifying instant that I met his eyes.   
  
He was seeing me. Really seeing me. I knew then that I hadn't lost myself somewhere between the pages of an ops report or left my identity in some exotic location because he was seeing me now. I wanted to run over than and hug him, thank him for doing the thing I most feared, seeing through my disguise.   
  
Instead I took a few steps toward him. "Hello."  
  
His face became a mass of wrinkles as he smiled up at me. Slowly and with great effort he lifted a hand and made slow deliberate motions. It's nice to finally meet you.   
  
  
End. 


End file.
